Strike Team DELTA- The Undoing
by thewonderpen
Summary: Not AoU compliment. Clintasha. From the beginning he was the first person she cared about. But he's married, and they are excellent partners. Action, adventure, and trouble begins.
1. Prologue

**So I had this idea to write something a bit on the serious side, and I'm actually kind of liking the way it's turning out. So please review and tell me what you think!**

 **Trigger Warning-(spoiler-ish) this is a clintasha fic with a married Clint. Any other words, if you don't like it, don't read it. Thank you.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing, thanks for making me say it aloud.**

One knock. Two knocks. Three knocks…

"Romanoff I know you're in there. Just open the door," Clint whines. He hears audible thumping around the room, none of which indicates any attempt to unlock the door and let him in. "Natasha…" Something heavy slams against the opposite end of the door. "Okay, okay I get it you need space. I'll leave your breakfast here for you." He gently places a tray of now lukewarm breakfast and coffee made just to her liking, black.

Clint leaves heading down the hall ignoring any side glances by anyone that witnessed his encounter, or lack of, with his partner. He made his way to the handler of both himself and his partner. Without knocking, as he's expected to do, he saunters in. Clearly, Coulson has been anxiously awaiting his report.

"Where is she, Barton?" The older man opts to skip greetings.

"Time, sir. Just a bit of a time." Clint sighs heaving himself into the chair across from Coulson, "Show a bit more mercy, please."

"Unfortunately, that's not my call Clint," his voice has lost its professionalism to make way for sympathy, "you disregarded orders six months ago and-"

"And… she's been an exceptional agent. Her missions are completed cleanly and I work well with her. A tad cold but nothing I couldn't handle."

"It's not her abilities as a spy or an assassin that I doubt. It's this. Her locking herself away days at a time in her room, refusing to attend any meetings or in general have human contact. Things like this make the others worry on her mental stability or even a question of her true loyalties," Clint pushes his chair up back and gets up angrily pacing at these accusations, "all I'm saying is that if she continues to act like a flight risk, the Council will treat her like one and place her back into deconditioning before deciding if her skills are worth her attitude to SHIELD."

Clint's head snaps back to his handler at his words. Natasha hated deconditioning. Therapies, interrogations, and all things that cause unnoticeable anxiety attacks in the young redhead. "Would they really-?"

"Arrangements are already being formed. Clint, as her friend, you need to get her out of that room, desperately." Coulson, before he was Clint's handler, he was a friend; a best friend even. Clint's nods, appreciatively before leaving briskly.

* * *

Natasha is miserable. Miserably alone and ignorant to any of her emotions, leaving her severely unhappy. In her room she reorganizes everything, constantly, to past the time. She scrubs the floors, walls, and everything encased in between them. Her SHIELD-issued dormitory eventually adapts an unscented all-purpose cleaner stench.

She isn't satisfied. She lives routinely. Waking at six in the morning, making her bed, stretching, bathing, dressing plainly, then indulging in her self-rationed breakfast. Then she cleans and tidies for hours. Finally she breaks to eat another minimal meal. Then changes clothing before tucking herself into bed never forgetting to delicately chain her wrist to the bedpost.

The entire ordeal doesn't bring comfort or satisfaction in fact it pains her to keep strict adherence. However, Natasha can't seem to pass this second nature outline, bore into her personality by no other than the Red Room.

The guilt is even more debilitating. She should be training, attending the mandatory functions she's been assigned to, or spending time with her partner like Coulson encouraged.

She wakes every morning, negotiating with herself how she should leave her room and take care of her responsibilities. Then glances down at the imprint the restraints left on her wrist and questions her place here and opts to exclude herself for another day. Routines, some just aren't meant to be broken.

She imagines how other must view her outside this room. Ungrateful, given the opportunity to start fresh, and squanders it. And, oh, her partner. How does he feel? He had a heart so open it was as if he chose the wrong career, and now did he regret fighting for her? He must, she certainly isn't making herself worth it.

Natasha Romanoff daydreams on occasion. She's immersed herself in all the ways her new employer will eventually attempt to terminate her as she continues this behavior. She imagines her escape and returning to a life on the run, again. She feels sick by the thought. Her stomach then flips suddenly when she hears clattering outside her door. She finds a knife instinctively being twirled around her fingers in expectation as the clattering continues for a few more brief moments.

A distinct click indicates someone has successfully picked her lock. Her eyes dart around the room, in search of anything that may cause her to be punished. The door is inched open and a husky voice is breaks the silence.

"Romanoff? I'm going to come in now, alright?" Barton obviously, the only one that probably still cared enough. The Russian doesn't respond, she stared blankly ahead wondering what was to happen next.

The door opens fully revealing the stone but somehow still calming face of Clint Barton. To his credit, he avoids gaping at the eerie sterilized, hospital-ish feel of the quarters. He eyes Natasha, carefully distinguishing any foul marks on her.

No one speaks for a moment. They just stare at each with nonjudgmental glances until Barton steps forward, "I need to ask you for a very important favor, please."

Natasha doesn't fail to notice the strained plea in the voice. She raises a single eyebrow in acknowledgement, Clint's heart leaps, this subtle gesture speaks volumes of progress she needs.

"I need a sparring partner."

"And you ask me?" Her voice waivers from inactivity.

"Well," he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, "I just- 'cause you know were partners and they tell us we should, you know… train umm together."

Did she make him nervous or did she really carry a homicidal-contemplating appearance, as her reputation rumored?

Natasha took a quick glance around the room, sighting the cleaning supplies she had just gathered. Routine was an enemy and still the choice seemed impossible when offered an out. Mistakenly she focused back to the desperately pleading eyes of her partner. The same eyes that softly bore into her soul when he geared an arrow in her direction before giving up and making a different call. "Okay."

 **Okay short chapter to get us started, the first few will be quick but they'll get progressively longer. Please Review they're very much appreciated!**


	2. Fight Night

**Hey again! Thanks for all the support, really appreciate it!**

 **Chapter 1: Fight Night**

He was particularly leaping for joy as he headed to the gym, arriving a few minutes earlier than the time he scheduled with Natasha. He couldn't wait to actually show off her progress so that when the time came he could tell the council where they can stick their Deconditioning plans for Romanoff.

As expected, Romanoff hadn't shown up yet. He shrugged his shoulders and began warming up. Ten minutes later he anxiously awaited as he knew his partner would walk through these doors any minute.

He busied himself with some weight training, ignoring the fact that she was supposed to be here five minutes ago.

Another 25 minutes passed. He refused to go looking for her. She was an adult, she'd come when she decided. He passed the time taking out frustrations on a punching bag. Another half hour passes. He runs the elliptical, practices targets, and does set after set.

Others that have been in and out of the gym take notice of the tense attitude of the archer and the way his head snaps back to the doors whenever any of them are opened. It all makes sense when a restless looking Natasha Romanoff appears two hour late to her appointment. Barton remains sitting on a mat as she makes her way cautiously over to his location. The gym has quieted some, agents all around lose discretion as they openly take in the lethal agent's presence and stressed appearance.

Now standing in front Barton, Natasha partakes in her only visible nervous tick of rubbing her wrists slowly. She is, from head to toe, decked out in all standard SHIELD clothing and her long flaming hair has been messily tied into a secure ponytail.

Barton attempts to look her eyes but they shift away shyly. "This is the wrong Black Widow", he concludes to himself. Fear, anxiety, nervousness, it's almost as if she's human.

"Glad you could make it," he says with an admirable amount of genuineness. Natasha only respond is another bout of wrist rubbing. "Are you still up for sparring?"

That catches her ears she perks up, shocked that the offer was still on the table. She was late, disobedient, and didn't deserve to be rewarded.

Clint finally stood, catching sight of her disbelief. He places his hands on her shoulders, drawing not only Natasha's attention but many side glances from their audience. "Hey, its okay that you're late, I'm just glad you came. So, will you please spar with me?"

She looks up. It feels like the first time he's ever really seen her eyes. There always so guarded and tough. He's never seen her as anything but a strong, resilient woman but right now she's having emotions, deep ones. He can't ignore the fact that she's Natasha Romanoff, the independent and self-reliant mastermind. She's his friend that's going through a tough time of change. Clint vows to stop treating her like just another partner and like an actual friend

She nods. She nodded! Clint smirks, he's been so distracted with hoping she'd show up he's forgotten that he actually has to spar with her and all the dangers that could possibly be associated with it.

They make their way to an empty mat, conveniently placed in the middle of the gym. A showcasing, basically.

They took their positions. Starting in opposite corners, Natasha rolls her shoulders observing where his weak spots were and what side he favored. This felt vaguely familiar. They had gone on heavy combat missions before, she secretly loved fighting with him. He was precise and swift and moved like his body was made to fight.

They circled each other. Barton with his classic smirk and Romanoff with her default mask of emotions. She launches first. A low kick to his left hip. He narrowly deflected it, rolled into a leg sweep that she flipped over to maintain her balance. Swinging to hook his unguarded right shoulder.

It was gracefully beautiful. Their precision matched with skill, they all but floated across the mat. Deflecting, kicking, spinning, and flipping it was an even opposition. A crowd was now forming around them unable to pry their eyes away. They didn't grunt or allow any noise to escape only the sound of except for the flesh connecting with flesh. It was poetic.

The match lasted maybe an hour each opponent having their own moments of having the upper hand. It must have been past midnight when the crowd dissipated that both chose the same moment to call truce. Clint collapsed dramatically at Natasha's feet, panting.

She stares down at him curiously, wondering why he being so… natural?

"Hungry? The cafeteria closed but there's a pizza spot around the corner we can grab some, if you like."

She shakes her head, she does know why. She is hungry, she's had pizza a couple times and she enjoys it but The Routine.

The Routine is already angered by her behavior. She needs to do damage control, some sort of punishment. The Red Room would've put her on a "nutrient siphon" by now, a fancy term for starvation until further notice.

"Why not?" Clint whines. Natasha creases her eyebrows, even more off put by his friendly behavior. He stretches his arm out asking for assistance. She grabs his hand and he raises, towering over her. "Please?"

Routine can go screw itself. "Okay." She whispers. Clint gives her a puzzled look, wondering why she acted as if she was moving mountains to have a slice of pizza.

"I'm going to shower real quickly, can I meet you at your dorm in ten?" Natasha nods slowly wondering what she's gotten herself into.

* * *

Clint's dressed casually in jeans and a black tee, while Natasha opts for another variation on SHIELD-issued clothing. They walk in slightly uncomfortable silence. Natasha spends most time observing this unfamiliar city.

The pizza is rather good. They sit across from each other in a booth with red leather benches and creaky wooden table hoisting there plain cheese pizza. Clint was willing to let her choose what toppings would go on the pie. It was evident that he was dismayed and offended when she simply responded with none. Still, he had no words and smiled pleasantly at her.

"So, we need to talk," Clint sighs after polishing off his second slice. Natasha figured this outing would be less innocent than Clint originally played it off to be. "I want to help you, but I need you to meet me half way."

She stares at nervously. Still nibbling at her first slice. He continues, "You're an amazing agent, the best most of us have ever seen. But your bosses spend entirely too much time focusing on the little things, like your social skills outside of missions. They're becoming alarmed and they want to breathe down your neck again. I will make sure that doesn't happen if you do a few things for me."

Natasha breaths deeply before agreeing to make more of an effort to care about keeping her job. He begins to lists small things she must do in the next few weeks to reduce the worry of the council. Eating at least one meal a day in the cafeteria, attending all mandatory meeting, training in the gym, and most importantly spending time with her partner.

She's internally regretting this agreement, she knows she'll disappoint him. He'll be upset, SHIELD will abandon her, and she'll lose the one opportunity to renew her life.

"Hey, hey. Don't overthink this, I'll be here. One step at a time, okay?" Clint's leans forward, his words are all earnest, this she doesn't doubt.

* * *

A week then two goes by. Routine isn't happy. Natasha wakes up on time but instead of a meager breakfast and an unquenchable thirst to clean, Clint picks her up every morning and they grab something hearty to eat at the cafeteria. He reviews her agenda for the day, mostly meetings and debriefings. She works out most afternoons and makes a habit out of sparring with Barton.

Still even though Routine is loosening its control over her, she continues to bind her wrist night. She wants to break the restraints but she's locked in, immune to escape.

 **Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave a review, comment, or question! Thank you!**


	3. Head On, Head First

**Aaaaand we're back**

 **Chapter 2: Head On, Head First**

Today, she's still asleep when a knock is heard at the door. She quickly releases herself, frowning at the deep red marks imprinted where the cuffs pinched into her skin. She wraps her opposite hand around the blemish then opens the door. Barton, as always.

"Hey sorry for waking you but you and I have some errands to run, we need to get an early start." She stares him down expecting him to elaborate. Instead he let himself into her dorm without permission and makes a beeline for the small kitchenette. He opens every cabinet then turns to her, "A bottle of water and a single granola is not nearly enough food to keep in here," he pads over to sleeping area and glances around, "No personal items, whatsoever. You know they pay us, right?"

He smirks as she swings her arms, exasperatedly and shrugs her shoulders. He smile suddenly creases and she immediately murmurs angrily at herself, regretting the actions. All eyes in the room fall onto the deep red marks, once expertly concealed now clear as day.

"Natasha," he swallows audibly, "what-?" Something clicks and he glances at the bedpost where metallic glimmer of handcuffs is peaking from under the blanket. He shifts back to Natasha who swears in Russian and practically sprints to the bathroom. Clint catches her and hooks his arm around her waist. She squirms against the hold but doesn't try to escape. "Romanoff what's going on?" His voice has a military tone to it and her body is pressed his.

She refuses to meet his eye, "The Routine". Her voice is quiet and embarrassed, she desperately tries to cover her wrist with her hand but she can't reach it in this position.

Barton, to his credit, appears to fully understand what "The Routine" means. He uses his free hand to cradle the reddening wrist in question. He brings it to eye level and examines it closely. Natasha is still in his grasp taking shaky breaths. "Every night?" he asks not taking his eyes away.

"I have too," she persists. Barton hums an unpleasant noise.

The reality of the situation suddenly falls over her like a bucket of cold water. How did he manipulate her into revealing her intimate details of her life? She feels compelled to break free from his hold and she does moments later.

"Stay out of it, Barton." Her eyes are dark as she growls the warning.

"Natasha, as your friend I don't feel comfortable knowing this is happening." He holds his hands up defensively.

"You think you're my friend?" She snorts, "I'm your project, Barton! Your little experiment that you show attention to so that SHIELD doesn't blame you when I eventually fail."

He reels back, offended. "Tasha, you're not going fail."

"Stop manipulating me! Leave."

"Tasha?"

"Leave!" And he does, because Romanoff has just taken a threatening step towards him and he doesn't underestimate the various ways he can cause her pain.

Natasha slumps to the floor in frustration. The Routine, has more control over her than she originally imagined. Barton will give up on her, she'll be back on the run and the nightmare will continue.

She doesn't leave the dorm that day. She doesn't see Barton all day, it worries but relieves her.

* * *

The next day Barton, wakes early. His mind on his partner. He request that they both have the days off. He dresses nicely and makes a list of things they should do today, if she'll allow him. Open a bank account, find out if she has a valid American drivers' license, buy clothes, food, and something she wants, something personal she can call her own.

With plans heavy on his mind he finds his way to her door. He barely knocks once before Natasha swings the door open. Fully dressed but seems a bit… off? She chewing her lip and rubbing her wrists, her eyes carry bags and her skin doesn't glow. She looks restless and tired.

He immediately changes his preplanned introduction. "Breakfast?"

She looks a tad hopefully and nods. He leads her through the halls and bypasses the cafeteria entirely, leading her out the building. She wonders silently what his plans entail.

They find their way to a diner. It's a classic 1950s diner where you're assaulted with smells of homemade burgers and pancakes. As they step inside, a young and pretty blond hostess turns to greet them. She's wearing a short, tight blue skirt with a white blouse and black apron. She noticed Barton first. "Clint! What ever did we do to have your company?"

Clint laughs, "Heather you know how busy I am. I still have to make time for some of Buddy's French toast."

The blond giggles. "Aye Buddy! Our James Bond friend is here!" She yells back towards the kitchen. Moments later a larger black man wearing oil stained garments and a cheery smile. Natasha takes a moment to understand what is going on. Clint's outside of SHIELD life, that he's willing showing her. He trusts her, he wants her to know that. Suddenly, as she tunes out the diner noise and the hearty laughs Buddy and Heather are sharing she looks at Clint. He's smiling freely, looking years younger than usual. Natasha pieces everything together and concludes how wrong she was to make those accusations yesterday. He trying, going above and beyond to not keep her alive but to be her friend.

She's vaguely aware when Barton gestures for her to come over. He introduces her as his coworker stumbling awkwardly over the term friend, then deciding against it. Everyone's extremely friendly, Heather takes them to a clean booth and the two of them are left alone.

"We should talk," Clint grows very serious.

"I'm sorry," Natasha murmurs with her head down, ashamed. She sets her right hand on the center of the table and pushes up the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt. There is an absence of angry red marks on her wrist. "I tried sleeping without it."

Clint looks down wide eyed at and gently grasps her wrist, "Why?" he says in disbelief.

"For control. They're still in my head, Clint. Telling me how to live my life, I may not work with for them but there still in me, controlling me." Her voice has grown low and rough and her eyes have darkened.

Clint nods, releasing her wrist. He's takes a breath to respond when Heather and her bouncing blond locks sways over, "Alright Clint, Bud's cooking up a pile of French toast for ya'. What about you sweetheart?" Turning to Natasha, "What are you having?" Her peppiness is almost nerve wracking to Romanoff.

"I-I I'm sorry I didn't look at the menu." Natasha stumbled over her words, breaking her concentration from spilling her private life out.

Clint swoops in while Heather has the decency to look uncomfortable, "Tell Bud to fix her a plate of French toast too, darling."

The blond bops her head and makes a tactful escape.

"You'll break free, you know?" Clint asks reassuringly. She looks unsure so he continues, "You've been here 6 months, Natasha. After a lifetime of living one way you're breaking everything you knew, even you're name got stripped from you."

She looks down, "I've always been either the Red Room's puppet or an alias." She looks up and smiles. Oh God, was that the first time he's seen her smile, even with fatigue features it would bring a man to his knees. "As theatrical as it sounds, I've never been me."

His face brightens, she actually just smiled, and he won't get that imagine out of his head any time soon. "Actually that fits perfectly to what we're doing today." Natasha raises an eyebrow and Heather interrupts again, this time with food.

"Alright my dears, we've got coffee and tons of French toast. You know where to find me if you need anything." Clint smiled graciously as Heather took her leave.

He turns back to Romanoff, "Today were getting you everything you need to be a normal adult." Natasha smiles, curious by what he means.

 **So since I forgot to post this earlier and I'm not crazy about this chapter, I'll post the next one tomorrow. Thank you for all the support! Please reviewwww!**


	4. Hush Matters

**Thanks for the support! Please review! Reviews are read, loved, and then cherished.**

 **Chapter 3: Hush Matters**

The day was busy but surprisingly eventful. He took to her to a bank, she explained the intricacies of robbing one without leaving a trace while waiting for service. They got kicked out of a bank. They went to the grocery store, Clint explained several times why she couldn't buy vodka and when that failed, why she had to buy more than just vodka. Clint disappeared after dropping her off at a department store, he gave her two rules: buy a lot and like what she's buys. As someone who loves clothes but hardly shopped for herself outside of dressing an alias, shopping was a rare treat. Bags and bags and casual, dressy, athletic gear, and everything it between.

She's proud of herself, because today she was a girl that shopped for herself and tried on clothes and looked in the mirror and called herself pretty. She needed that, she hasn't loved herself in a very long time but here and now was a start.

The two assassins enjoyed company at the SHIELD cafeteria around dinner time. She opened up, telling him of all of all the cities she's been too. Clint made her smile a record amount of times this evening (he's counted 23 times), retelling as many mission "mishaps" he could recall.

One could say everything was going delightful until Coulson summons them to his office. With a mission.

They're seated rather stiffly in his office. Maria Hill is there talking hurriedly into a phone. Several other agents are there, typing furiously on computers, or debating on matters of "time sensitivity" and "compromising situations".

Coulson begins speaks exclusively to them. "Two agents, Christian Demorie and Alec Sanden were sent on a rescue mission for political activist Harean Munnings in an Iranian prison. Two days ago they were given the all clear to infiltrate the prison, two days ago they ceased all communications and failed to make the extraction point. Extraction team was sent in for recovery, they released a distress signal approximately 2 hours ago then stopped reporting. Full debriefing will take place in route. Wheels up in five."

Neither daring to ask a question amidst the mayhem that had become Coulson's office, rushed to gather weapons and change into full tac gear.

They met each other on the quinjet. Coulson appears to have been waiting hours for them to arrive. Clint is barely aboard when takeoff occurs.

There is a scurry of information being tossed at them. They take everything in silently only breaking for the occasional question or two. The gist of their job is to recover all SHIELD agents silently, and retrieve Munnings only if possible.

"Now agents, due to tension between both the Iranian and American government," Clint swallows audible he hates when missions have these type of stakes, "if your identity is compromised, all ties to your citizenship will be eliminated and you will be forced to carry on your own. Are we understood?" They both nod and Coulson shifts to the cockpit.

Natasha turns to the Clint and they speak for the first time since dinner. "What did he mean in that last part?"

Clint doesn't meet her eyes he seems distracted by something, "Umm it means that were under SHIELD oath that if a government official or law enforcement of any kind uncover us as spies, we can't name any country as our own or will be killed for treason, granted they don't kill us on the spot. If we somehow escape with our lives, depending on the circumstances we may convince SHIELD to push the immigration board to grant asylum." He gets up abruptly, "I have to make a phone call, excuse me."

With that, Natasha found herself alone, quietly wondering why Clint seemed so tense. Why everyone seemed so tense, really.

After mindlessly flipping through the mission report she felt uncomfortably unfamiliar with motivation behind Clint's drastic mood change. She got up to search for his whereabouts on the small craft.

She found him in a corner leaning against the bathroom door with her back to her, she walked slightly heavier so he heard her coming.

Clint becomes aware of someone behind him he swings around and jabs the phone in his pocket staring holes into his partner. "Hey," he says casually as if she couldn't see his tiny panic attack he just had.

"You didn't have to hang up for me, I can wait"

"No, no it's fine. What's up?"

"Was the call important?"

Clint immediately begins squirming and scratching his neck, "Ummmm, uhhhh. It-umm. It was-mm-"

"None of business, I understand," Clint looks like he may want to argue but then decides against it. "I just wanted to know what's going on with you and Coulson is there something I'm not being told?"

He cocks an eyebrow at her then sighs, rubbing a hand across his face, "you don't get it Romanoff."

"Get what?" She leans toward him, looking angered. They both then hear movement on the other side of the plane. Clint opens the bathroom door a gestures for her to go in, he follows. As soon as the door shuts her scowls deepens, "Barton talk, now."

"Natasha, two agents have gone in and stopped reporting after entering the sight. An entire extraction team followed practically the exact same suite. This isn't a mission, were walking into a trap."

"A suicide mission?" She whispers. Clint looks up at her solemnly. She starts stammering, "b-but I thought I. I thought you said if-"

"I thought so too, Natasha. I can't deduce what those prude council members have warped up in their heads that they believe they can pawn with our lives like roulette." Clint clenches his fists no longer talking to Natasha who has just begun rubbing her wrist.

"I tried to be the person they asked me to become." Emotions swirls through Natasha as the rug gets pulled from under her feet. "Why did you make me do this? You told me I wouldn't fail!" Suddenly her palms on his chest shoving him back. Before she storms out, Clint quickly traps her between the door and himself.

"You're not going to fail Romanoff. We're not going to die. You are going to keep a clear head and get yourself back alive, and I will do the same." His voice is firm, he directs his pent up anger into determination. "Are we understood, Romanoff?"

She stares at him a minute before nodding slowly. He releases her and they leave together. Coulson is standing in the main area waiting for them, remaining seemingly ignorant of where they had just been. "We land in thirty minutes, gear up."

 **Alright, this is the last of those really, really short chapters. Tomorrow or the day after I'll post again. Please Review!**


	5. It All Falls Down

**Thanks for the support! Please review! Reviews are read, praised, and then admired eternally.**

 **Chapter 4: It All Falls Down**

Coulson mans the comms from the quinjet while his two assassins are sent trekking through miles of sand. It's hot as the sun begins its descent. Minimal words are shared between the trio and there's a definite lack emotion when anyone does speak.

They are in range of the prison by nightfall. Coulson alerts them to run recon for about an hour, then infiltrate.

They spot a decent hill within observation range and settle in there. Nothing out of the ordinary appears.

Natasha has refused to look at Clint, her face is stone as always on a mission but to study her face as Clint had been doing, you could see a flash of worry or self-pity.

Sitting in the sand, Clint inches closer to her. Then wraps an arm around her shoulders in a friendly manner. She instinctively moves away. "What are you doing?" She whispers.

"It's a form of comfort, most people would conclude."

"I gathered that Barton, why are doing that?" she being rubbing her wrists.

"Because I wanted to." His answer was so frustratingly simple she almost wanted to dive back into his arms. But she wouldn't, she would value what professional behavior meant. Even if this was in reference to a man who could appear so innocent she almost wanted his undivided attention. But she wouldn't, she would sit in the dry sand with him until Coulson gave them the all clear, and then storm the prison to their immediate death.

Coulson, noticeably quiet during the exchange, perked up in the comms. He rambles on about security posts and other important but bland things. Clint has his eyes trained on Natasha taking in any and all signs of discomfort.

They're given the all clear, the go into No COMM mode and make their way to the prison. They scout out a dark zone of the building. Romanoff motions for Clint to lookout while she scales the building. It's an old brick building that she can free climb with ease. Down below Clint and his trusty bow and quiver stand daring anyone to challenge him.

Natasha is halfway up when she spots a glimpse of a something shiny or dark from the raised security post at the entrance of the prison guard about seventy yards away. The item is easily identified when a red light emits above the barrel of the automatic sniper. The lighted dot fix itself on the chest of Natasha. There's no one manning the sniper making it impossible to make out during recon. She gestures wildly to Clint who motions for her to jump.

And she does, not before hearing a loud crack break the silence. She realizes that she's no longer jumping, she's floating. Or maybe she's unconsciousness or dreaming. Times slows she ponders Clint and French toast, and Fury's Cadillac. Then the Cadillac drives away and Heathers takes back the French toast and it's just Clint. Clint yelling, boots running, and sand whirring she hears it all. Oh and the alarms ringing.

Prison alarms. Mission. Clint! Her eyes open, itchy and red. Sand is everywhere, filling every sense. But there's also debris and smoke clouding her surroundings. Her back doesn't want to move and her brain doesn't want to focus. She forces it to command her body to move. Everything aches and blurs. Something is in throat and she's vomiting before she realizes it.

After several pathetic tries, she's on her unbalanced feet. Her brain won't work properly she can't remember where she is or why a building is on fire and people are running in chaotic masses.

Her body finally begins to obey and she begins moving. With at first hesitant steps, she scolds her muscles into a jog then a run. Granted, she stumbles a few times as her mind can't seem to register balance. But soon she finds her way to the burning building. She tries to recall the faces of the agents she's been seen for but her thoughts are too jumbled.

Among all the inmates and guards running for their lives she spots a face she knows as familiar, the target she assumes. Her mind stumbles then spits out a name, "Haraen Munnings". Her legs begin to move and before she realizes it she's tackled him. He scrambles away from her with a look of terror. His sun tanned skin is creased with wrinkles and scratches. According to the report, Munnings is only 32 but here he looks to be in his late fifties and starving.

Natasha tries to explain that this his rescue mission and he needs to follow her to safety but the surrounding chaos around them drowns put all noise and now a round of gunshots go off and the screams get even louder. Munnings resist her soundless pleas to follow her and tries to free himself from her grasp. Although particularly weak, Natasha pins his wrist to the ground in an iron hold. Panic takes over in his eyes and he swings aiming for her temple. The assassin narrowly dodged to blow, everything was working slower in her head, and she knew that even when she landed a kick to Munnings' chest. He reels back but doesn't lose balance he retaliates with a successful blow to her head. She knows she's losing consciousness when she delivers a weak punch to his gut.

He knees her in the kidneys and she collapses to her knees. His hands settle firmly on Natasha's throat and her lungs commands her to make choked pleas for air.

There's a lack of noise but something bright and white is screeching loud enough to bother her. She tastes metal, sticky, warm metal. Her vision blurs as an arrow embeds itself into the neck of the man hovering above her and suddenly the pressure is gone.

* * *

"I have four dead agents, one dead asset, and another agent in critical," Fury closes his eye and paces in front of his desk, "Now I really don't care what that mission report says, I want to know from all of you why I have a list of dead and injured agents and assets all of which the work of other SHIELD agents."

Christian Demorie, Alec Sanden, and Clint Barton all stand in awkwardly unified and stiff row. They're still marked by dirt, soot, and blood but all things considered, they're alive.

"Let's begin with the explosion. Demorie? Sanden? Care to weigh in?"

"We had to go into deep cover mode after we were compromised during infiltration. We created the explosion as a distraction to complete the rescue mission. We never requested an extraction team or put out a distress signal." Demorie begins to rant then immediately ceases when Fury raises a daring eyebrow in his direction. The young agent finishes with a quiet, "sir".

"Taking into account that you're fairly new field agents, I'm going to assume that you realize that protocol dictates if extraction point is missed an agent is given 24 hours to make some sort communication to SHIELD or extraction is sent. But seeing that you gathered that setting off an explosion in a prison was an acceptable idea, I can see why you may have forgotten that detail. In any case, your juvenile thinking costs the lives of the four-man extraction team that were in the building desperately trying to rescue your sorry selves as well as threw another agent off the of the building which landed her in critical." The two younger agents bow their heads in defeat. Fury continues, "In addition to an Iranian prison bomb and all the dramatics, somehow an arrow still managed to kill the asset," he turns sharply to eye Barton, "if your next words isn't you admitting that you've missed… well I hope you're a god-fearing man that starts praying right about now."

"Munnings was is the process of murdering another agent, I took offensive action."

"Don't child me, Barton. Your partner was injured during the explosion, why weren't you with her in the first place?"

Clint who had his head up until this point looks ashamed and torn, "It was chaos and I couldn't find her. There were people screaming from the building and I couldn't leave them there to die."

"Ok, so after your impromptu rescue mission, you come outside in time to witness Munnings choking agent Romanoff? Right, and then you decide, you being the world's best marksmen, to aim for a fatal shot rather than a knee or arm or something."

"My partner was holding on by a thread, I took invasive action to eliminate the threat."

Sanden perks up, "To be fair, sir, according to the report both Agent Romanoff and Munnings were probably in equal states of delusion."

"Don't quote the report at me, Sanden. Now I can either deem this entire failure as one unfortunate event after another or I can find some severe way to punish all of you for your immature actions. While I decide which, none of you have been cleared for active duty by your psychologist so figure things out, you can schedule a reevaluation no sooner than a week from now." Fury pauses and takes a seat at his desk, "You're dismissed."

All three agents remove themselves from Fury's presence. Clint wastes no time marching himself down the hall toward the medical wing. Behind him he hears Sanden and Demorie audibly sigh and high five each other. "Idiots," he thinks and continues to Natasha's infirmary room.

A doctor with a distinct British accent calls Clint over the moment he steps into the wing. "Agent Clint Barton, correct?" Barton nods, "I'm Doctor Wilsons I've been assigned to your partner, agent Natasha Romanoff." He flips through some pages of a clipboard he's consulting. Wilsons' blond hair is slicked back to accompany his very young features. "Well her condition has improved greatly overnight. She's breathing on her own and expected to make a full recovery."

"Will she be awake soon?" There's a bit of desperation in Clint's voice.

"She's under heavy medication, we're set to lower the dosage tomorrow morning she'll wake a few hours later. But you're welcome to see her now."

Clint nods and grudgingly trots to his partner's room. A small smile breaks onto his face when he sees her, no more tubes or pale gray skin. She looks healthy, peaceful even.

He pulls up a chair beside her and listens to her soft breaths and tiny movements. Natasha is fine and that's important. That's all that matters to him at the moment. She's been here nearly seven months and has made remarkable progress. Professionally, she's barely old enough to be a field agent, most 23 year olds are just finishing their training. However he doesn't care about her professional status as much as he wants her to be happy. All those months back he brought Natalia Romanova, a mask of a woman, no personality because she never had the chance to develop one. But now, character was forming. Traits that were hers not decided by some harsh Red Room thug.

Her personality certainly didn't disappoint. Clint has witnessed her be girly, humorous, and compassionate. He eagerly stood by waiting for her to discover another trait to add to the list.

While Clint lost himself in thought, a whimper from Natasha's bed bought him back to the present. He turned sharply to see his partner scrunch her face and whimper again. Her right arm is wriggling above her head and her left hand is scratching at the wrist roughly. Her body jerks and she whimpers again digging her nails deeper into her skin.

Clint is on his feet alarmed by the sight. He pries her left hand away from her wrist and gently examines the skin for marks. The look of discomfort eases as soon as his hand grips the area in question. Clint squeezes the wrist with a bit of pressure and a pleasant sigh of relief escapes her lips. The archer sits back down without letting go. He uses his free hand to reach over to push aside pieces of her impossibly long, fiery hair. He absentmindedly begins to softly caress her cheek it's so soft and smooth his mind hardly registers the action. As soon as it does, however, his hand reels back in punishment and he scolds himself. He looks down at her wrist that he refuses to let go he shakes his head and whatever primitive thoughts were flying into his head. He leans back and shuts his eyes, waiting for when he'll have the courage to stand up and leave.

* * *

It's two in the morning when wakes. A nurse interrupts his slumber while making her rounds. His hand is still wrapped around Natasha's wrist as she sleeps soundly.

He releases the grip and stands up he turns and leaves the room immediately. If he doesn't get out quickly, Natasha's returning whimpers will glue him there.

He makes his way to his dorm where he showers and throws on some gray joggers. He grabs a duffel bag and fills it with a few personal items. His room is dark and the moonlight from the small window washes over his bare chest and conflicted facial features. He doesn't want to leave, he can't go but he must. He stalls by tidying up his area then when he's finally run out of things to fuss over he pulls on a black t-shirt and swings his duffel bag over his shoulders and walks out of the room.

* * *

Natasha wakes that afternoon to an empty sterile room. A doctor is soon replaces the silence, a young, handsome doctor that has introduced himself as Dr. Wilsons. He asks her a list of questions and examines her wounds.

The doctor catches her glance at the doorway while he applies pressure to her bruised neck. "If you're waiting for Agent Barton he left in the middle of the night. Probably wanted to get some rest, he'll be back soon I'm sure." Dr. Wilson smiles encouragingly at her. "Everything looks in order, miss. You have a severe concussion but you'll make a full recovery."

Natasha nods, after not saying much the entire time. The doctor smiles and leaves. She sits, and waits.

* * *

Clint exits a small quinjet and is greeted by a green prairie with a few rolling hills. He sighs contentedly and begins his trek.

The sun is still high when he a farmhouse comes into view. He pulls a key from the bag and lets himself in.

"Laura, I'm home."


	6. Sweet Talk

**Hey everyone, welcome to chapter 6! Please review! Reviews are read, appreciated, then immortalized.**

 **Chapter 5: Sweet Talk**

Weeks passed, Natasha made a full recovery and Clint returned without explanation. They were both cleared for active duty. Months passed and they worked their way back to the highest ranked partnership SHIELD had. Soon enough Natasha's one year anniversary is in front of them.

One year after joining SHIELD and Natasha's personality is distinct and Clint finds himself laughing with her on frequent occasions and he dares to call her his friend.

Natasha is assigned to a quick mission the day of her anniversary. Coulson saying something about a weapons dealer selling gamma radiation infected lab materials and whisked Romanoff away promising to return that evening.

He debated in his mind for some time if and how they should celebrate. He's pacing back in forth in their apartment wondering whether he should surprise her with the cupcake in his fridge that he purchased for her or would that be too embarrassing. He wondered if she'd even care. Or would she think he was mocking her? He wasted an entire day pondering over the same question, it surprised him when he heard Natasha's knock on the door. He rushes to let her in, still unsure how this will play out.

The door opens to reveal a slightly disheveled but still graceful Natasha Romanoff. She holds a small stack of papers. "Hey, I got back from my mission a little while ago and Coulson wanted me to give you these to look over." She holds out the papers, he takes them, "Alright, I'll see you later then."

"Wait!" He says a bit too loudly. She turns and raises an eyebrow. "Why don't you come in for a minute?"

Natasha wonders if he'll elaborate. When he just stands there awkwardly she takes the hint and walks in.

"Sooooo," he begins with forced casualness, "how'd the mission go?"

"Pretty well, we actually found out that this guy bought the gamma infected weapons from this gang of thieves. So SHIELD is organizing a mission to end them too, I think Demorie and Sanden are going to get that one."

"Oh wow, that's yeah. That's great." He was failing at being smooth.

"Do you have any water bottles, by chance?" She asks pleasantly. Without second thought he gestures toward the fridge and takes the moment to rethink his approach. A few seconds later she returns from the kitchenette and he attempts conversation again.

"So, seems Coulson has quite a bit of paper work for me, huh?" Wow, he was embarrassing himself.

Natasha smirks, "I hope you weren't planning on starting that now, were you?"

"No, I don't… no if you wanted… Did you need me for something?" He stumbles terribly over his words.

She tosses him his jacket, "Well, we have to go get me a new cupcake. It's my one year anniversary and you got the wrong kind."

"What-. Ohh!" Clint's eyes widened, "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Then you shouldn't have left it in your fridge. Did you really think I'd go for plain yellow cake with chocolate frosting? I mean I know I haven't lived here long but my palette is far more complex then something as basic as that."

"Well then, I guess we better hurry up." He says practically pushing her out the door.

* * *

They walk side by side down a busy street. Making small talk until Natasha decides to cut into something deeper. "So you don't have to answer this if you don't feel comfortable. It's kind of intrusive but I don't think you'll mind. I mean if you answer it then I guess-"

"Natasha, what's the question," Clint laughs.

"Why don't I ever about you being in a relationship and you never tell me about any friends, you don't seem like the unsociable type?" She ask hesitantly.

Clint laughs, heartily. "'well I guess it's a plus, the elusive Black Widow does find me completely unfriendable."

"Oh just answer the question, birdbrain." Natasha smiled, hitting him playfully.

"I'm a spy it's my job to seem likable but I for myself don't mind being alone a lot. I enjoy it," he says it so coolly and naturally, Natasha doesn't suspect a thing.

Natasha feels like making a quick jab at him but there at the pastry shop, and everything suddenly smells a child's laughter or something equally poetic. Natasha quickly becomes entranced in the glass case of cupcakes she squats down to see them at proper eye level. The shop is empty save for a young brunette with her back to the door.

The brunette calls out, "Sorry, we're closed!"

Clint leans over the counter and gives his most convincing seductive voice, "oh, well that's quite unfortunate I just wanted to grab a couple of cupcakes to end the night." The brunette swivels around quickly and showcases a flirty smile.

"Oh, well, maybe I could make a small exception," she bites her lip, "for you." The cashier was far too young for Clint, maybe even underage but she wasn't let going to let that small detail deter her.

Clint immediately drops the façade. "Thanks!" He looks over to Natasha and the brunette follows his eyes shocked to a second woman in the shop, "Did you decide yet?"

"I really want the peach cobbler but I also love the way the chocolate coconut one looks. They also have a peanut butter one and ever since I tried those peanut butter cups candy I've wanted more." Natasha sighs dramatically, "Why don't you decide?"

Clint smiles, "It's an simple choice for me," he turns to the young cashier who's glaring daggers to into both of them while the assassins pretend to be oblivious to it, "One of each please."

Natasha eyes widen as the cashier clenches her fists and begins filling boxes, "There are like twenty flavors here Clint!"

"Consider it part of training in assimilation."

"By eating cupcakes?"

Clint salutes her in mock seriousness, "An important aspect of our culture. Truly what are forefathers fought so bravely for."

Natasha laughs, Clint beams at his success.

After he's paid for the overpriced delicacies they trek back to base. They pass a cozy coffee shop and the smell is too intoxicating for Clint to resist. "You mind if we stop for stop for some coffee. It'll go well with the cupcakes and they defiantly have the kind you'll want, black."

Natasha looks uneasily at him, "I prefer flavored coffee."

"What! You always get black, you don't even put sugar in your coffee."

"Back in the Room, they used a subjection technique where they gave us cake once a month and lukewarm hot chocolate as we got older they would give us black and bitter coffee. Something about 'No one would treat us better than we have so don't turn against us' type of manipulation. But then when I was seventeen, I had a mission where I had to go undercover as a barista in this coffee shop in Moscow for about two weeks. They had every flavor I could dream of. Every day before and after work I'd make myself a new kind." Her distant smile suddenly turns cold, "Would have been the best two weeks if I didn't have to sleep with some disgusting old politician, then kill his family."

Clint doesn't know what to say at first, he wasn't expecting her to reveal something that quickly. Now she looks very upset and he's worried, "Do you want to go back to base now?"

She looks up and meets his eyes, she gives a small but very real smile, "No, I want a hazelnut latté."

* * *

After an evening of too much cake and coffee Clint wakes to a crumbs and empty boxes everywhere. He groans as he twist his body uncomfortably. Natasha didn't leave his dorm until the very middle of the night. However, Clint couldn't complain they were bonding, building a friendship and henceforth a strong partnership.

He pulls himself up and registers there's a rhythmic knocking at the door. "Oh just come in already!" Clint groans.

"Don't you think I would have done that if I the door was unlocked?" Coulson.

With another hiss of mumbled complaints Clint's drags his shirtless tired-looking body to the door. "Since when did a lock ever stop you from getting where you needed?"

Coulson looking impeccable in his tailored suits raises an eyebrow, "Unlike you I try to respect others' boundaries. But on to more important things… what happened here?" Coulson asks finally noticing the mess.

"If you must know, we celebrated Natasha's one year anniversary last night. We ate cupcakes and talked."

"That's sounds very un-Widowlike." The older man comments.

"That's because I wasn't with the Black Widow last night, I was with Natasha Romanoff."

Coulson hums thoughtfully then changes subjects, "You missed a debriefing this morning, I've been calling you."

"Oh sorry, time kind of got away from us last night, I've only been asleep a couple hours."

"It's ten in the morning, Clint."

"Aww, time no…" Clint whines.

"Well to give a summary, you have a mission next week, solo. So does Natasha she'll be working with Maria Hill." Coulson lets himself into the dorm and begins making coffee.

"Hill? I thought she just got appointed as second to Fury?"

"She did. They have an assignment at the New York base. Mostly classified stuff. Your debriefing has been rescheduled to late this afternoon, try to show up this time please."

"Alright, alright I'll be there."

"Why are there so many coffee cups? I thought it was just you too?" Coulson raises an eyebrow at the archer.

Clint smiles thoughtfully, "It was, I was helping Natasha with her deconditioning from the Red Room."

"By overdosing her on caffeine?"

"It's a long intimate story that I got her to share with me last night," Clint boosts.

Coulson pours some coffee into a clean mug and finds a decent looking cookies and cream cupcake, claiming it without permission. He shrugs, "On a good note, the Council is finally starting to take their minds off of her, after the Iranian prison bomb last spring I think they were satisfied with only nearly killing her."

"How gracious of them," Clint deadpanned.

"Well despite their efforts, you're doing great with her. She's been here a year and she's become a legend. She'll move up the ranks quickly if she kept progressing like this."

Clint smiles and opens his mouth to respond when a knock on the door breaks his concentration. "Come in."

A well-rested, well put together redhead enters, she pauses and takes in Clint's dishevelment, "Did you oversleep? You missed our briefing."

Coulson smirks and Clint throws his hands up exasperatedly, "Noted! Noted! Send in the SWAT, won't you!" Clint mumbles something incoherently while making his way to the bathroom, "I going to shower,"

Coulson and Natasha stare at each other for moment smirking, before Coulson returns to his cupcake. "Happy belated anniversary, I came by to pick up something sweet from the party I wasn't invited too."

"It was hardly a party, sir. Clint just decided to buy me a bunch of these… baked goods." Her persona was stern.

"Sounds like a party to me. Quite celebratory and festive."

"It was my partner's idea," Natasha concedes.

"Very thoughtful of him. Wasn't it?" Coulson doesn't wait for a response, "So was deciding to save you, giving you the chance to live a different life, and have control."

"Where are you going with this, sir?" Natasha creases her eyebrows.

Coulson shrugs, "I don't know everything about where you come from, agent Romanoff but I'll assume that no one has showed you attention like Clint for a very long time."

Natasha looks down, "Natasha?" She looks up with an emotional mask over her face, "he cares about you because he believes you're capable of being a better person. Be careful. Don't mix up the wrong emotions."

The bathroom door swings open to reveal a clean shaven but still inexplicably shirtless Clint, "You guys still here?"

"Don't worry about me, I'm gone," Coulson says striding to the door giving Natasha one last look as the door closes.

"I'm going go too," Natasha nearly whispers.

"Ok, I'll see you later. Are you alright?" Clint pulls a shirt over his head.

"Yeah," she rubs her wrist.

"Listen, I'm going take off after this briefing this afternoon, I'll be back before you leave for your mission with Hill."

Natasha felt the urge to call him out on his vagueness, "Yeah, yeah fine." She had his door halfway open now.

Clint held the door in place, "Tasha, you sure nothing is bothering you?"

Tasha? Was that a thing now? Tasha, it sounded nice when he said in that low quiet voice of his. "No just thinking about that mission."

"With Hill? You'll be fine Maria is cool I've known her since my recruitment."

Tasha fakes a smile walks away. She knows whatever is stirring in her will surface soon. This was going to become a serious issue.

 **For all my lovely readers hoping to see a certain brunette this chapter, I apologize for my cruelty. Please keep reading! In time my readers!**


	7. The Domino Effect

**Thank you lovely reviewers, followers, and readers for making it this far. Please review! Reviews are read, respected, then treasured!**

 **Chapter 6: The Domino Effect**

Clint's mission was mission was simple enough recon and assassination of some drug trafficker dabbing into terrorism business in a remote Pacific island. At least the scenery will be lovely, but he hardly focused on the mission. Clint was back at home opening the door to his farmhouse calling out his wife's name.

A pretty brunette whose petite figure showcases her long wavy hair appears. She's stares up at the archer, clutching his forearms sighing a greeting as she melts her lips into his. Clint kisses her back appreciatively.

"How long are you here for?" Laura asks when they break for air.

"Maybe five days, I have a mission a week from now."

"So, maybe six and half days?" she asks with a husky undertone to her voice.

Clint retreats to their kitchen with Laura on his heels. "Would love to babe, but Natasha is leaving for a mission the day before me, I'd feel wrong not bothering to see her beforehand."

Laura wraps her arms around his waist and leans her head against his chest, "I get it, I do. You guys are partners you supposed to trust each other. I'll cut you some slack, since you can't tell her where you sneak off to weeks at time."

Clint grips tightly to her waist, "Actually, I was thinking, maybe it would be easier to tell. I mean she's my partner she'll find out someday," Laura pushes herself off his chest and looks at him, "Coulson, Fury, and probably Hill know. Natasha is quieter than all of them, combined."

Still within his arms she responds, "Are we negating the fact that not too long ago she was a Russian spy that did pretty vile crimes, according to you?"

Clint retreats from her body, backing away almost offended, "She's been at SHIELD for a year, and she didn't do those things willingly. She forced, abused, and manipulated."

Laura can feel his anger radiating off of him. "I know, I know," she soothes, "but isn't this whole arrangement meant to keep this safe," she says gesturing to the house around her. "And me," she whispers.

He breathes and calms himself, "I wouldn't have mentioned it if I didn't think she'd be a good proponent in protecting what we've built here," he sighs, "but if you aren't ready, we'll wait." She nods approval and they leave it at that, never mentioning it for the remainder of his visit.

* * *

Natasha woke to the sound of her own hisses of pain. Groggily, she finds the source to be the restraints on her wrist that had been secured too tightly. Bruises were adorning her bare skin, now bright red. So, long sleeves today.

She heads to the cafeteria by herself, for the first time. Usually, Clint swings by her dorm to retrieve her but Clint was hadn't returned from wherever he ran off to. She was left feeling the slightest bit vulnerable eating alone. In all honesty, she knew what kind of life line Clint was providing her with. He was her strongest connection to normalcy.

It was this reliance that made her nervous. That curt warning from Coulson made her wonder about her dependency on the archer and what that could lead to. Certainly not something so terribly awful, but something she didn't need right now.

There were too many eyes on her when she entered the cafeteria. Something felt off. Senior agents all focused their attention to her as she moved through the room. The table where she and Clint sat every morning was hosting three stone faced senior agents. Natasha realized she hadn't ever sought contact from any other agent besides Clint, Coulson, or occasionally, Fury. She didn't know most of her coworkers apart from their names.

She gathers her food and attempts to avoid standing hesitantly in the middle of the floor. Her tension increases when the three agents sitting at her and Clint's table calls her over. Natasha stiffens, debating whether to ignore the intruders. "That's not how you make friends," she tells herself. She confidently struts over, wondering how to introduce herself. Stern and coolly? Playfully?

As she approaches the table the first man, a muscular and long haired male with features that could only be described as the 'villain of a movie' type, talks first, "Barton's project, right?"

She quirks an eyebrow, their arrogance is particularly radiating off them. "Agent Romanoff, actually."

The next man, a pale and slender agent that doesn't appear to have the build to be a field agent, perks up, "So agent, how do enjoy SHIELD? Must be different from Serbia or Iceland-"

"Russia, actually" she states coolly while collecting her tray then spinning on her heel and swaying away.

Her determination wavered slightly as he three men behind her loudly picked up their discussion of her. "You know Barton's training her strictly. Poor, little Russian assassin with a few skills, all she had to do was bend over in front of him to prove her loyalties."

The table erupts with laughter and another man continues, "Well she hasn't blown this place up yet so I guess 'training' is going well. Probably has to be submissive, Barton could make her do whatever he felt like it."

Natasha takes a breath and pauses in her strides. Sexual promiscuity had always been more of a concern to her, than some preferred. Even when it was constantly stripped down, to her, as a decisive definition of nothing more than physical control, she felt that empty space when completing an assignment. Intimacy, she could never falsify that sex needed intimacy to feel accomplished. Natasha held sex as sacred, it certainly wasn't a learned trait. After all, her childhood memories consisted on the cold, technical facts on how to use one's body to achieve an agenda. Perhaps, it's a natural trait, one that simply is ingrained that sex needs intimacy, there definitely was no other place she'd learn the true meaning of it.

She retraces her steps, now prowling at men like a woman on a mission. Her targets underestimate her level of sanity and opt to smirking arrogantly at the redhead. She drops her tray at the previous space it had been. She smiles brightly at her three man audience. "Do you want to know what I can do with this body?" Natasha drops her voice to a captivating seductive tone. She leaves no chance for the fellow's faces to morph into horrified expressions. The tall round table is quickly flipped over her shoulder and a roundhouse kick is placed on the temple of the man on her right. Her hands hook around the neck of the man to her left while her thighs are securing themselves around the man in the center. They're choked out, flipped over, and unconscious in a matter of moments. Natasha has already landed in a gracefully squat by the time people around her began to react. A hush falls everyone, followed by confused murmur by those who didn't witness the two second knockout. All focus fixates on the still untrusted former enemy assassin.

* * *

Laura settled on the front porch with two trays of sweet tea. Her bare feet planted on the steps as she squints to make out her husband's figure approaching the house. Sweating and heaving a load of firewood no one would assume that Clint was anything more than a well-built farmer.

He unloads the wood in a neat stack on the porch. "That should last you for a while." He sinks down next to her taking a glass for himself. Laura stares at him, forehead creased. He looks forward as he takes a slow sip. He coughs as he swallows and glances accusingly at the fluid.

Laura sighs, "It's made with decaffeinated tea. I'm trying to trick my body into thinking it's decent."

Clint raises an eyebrow and pushes away the glass like poison. "Why on earth are you trying to torture yourself?"

She doesn't maintain eye contact. Looking forward she pressed a hand to her stomach, "The baby doesn't like caffeine."

Five seconds go by. Laura doesn't look at him and Clint does, starring at her side profile. Laura chips in, "Three and a half weeks. Everything is going well, I found out last week after I realized I was late. Went to the Faller's over by Pine Creek Road, the husband is a doctor you know, he confirmed it and gave me the information to this clinic a couple towns over in Pink Meadowview. She's supposed to be the best obstetrician in the county."

"Laura-?" Clint whispers.

"So I gave her a call. Her name's Dr. Viviana Cordillera. She's sounded sweet. I made an appointment for tomorrow."

"Laura." Clint calls slightly louder.

"In the meantime though, she told what kind of foods I had to stop eating. I'm supposed to limit my caffeine but I know how much you like homemade sweet tea and I was at the market and I saw decaffeinated tea and I thought we could still drink it together when you come visit," Laura starts choking up, "But I hate it and you do to!" She burst into tear and leans on his shoulder ignoring his stench from his hard work.

Clint is stiff, confused, and completely lost in thought that he almost forgets to wrap an arm around her shoulders and respond. "So, you're pregnant." Was that the only thing he could think to say right then?

Laura lets out a watery chuckle and wipes her face. "Yes, I am."

He breathes deeply, "okay."

Laura raises her head, "okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Okay, we're going to be parents. Okay, I still love you. Okay, you still love me. Okay, there will a lot of problems. Okay, this wasn't planned. Okay, will figure this out. Okay, we're okay."

Her eyes stare at him in shock and she stammers out, "o-okay."

Her head goes on his shoulder and her eyes close, "okay".

* * *

After the long drive to the county's best, they sat in the empty waiting area of the establishment, hand in hand. Some daytime talk show is playing on the small TV in the corner that has captured Laura's attention. Clint tips his head back and studies the ceiling. The silence is broken when buzzing emits from his jeans.

"SHIELD phone," Laura murmurs without looking over." Clint groans a reply and answers the phone. Laura can't hear who exactly is on the line but they talk fast and didn't bother to say hello.

She watches her husband morph into stress-induced features. Suddenly he's on his feet. "She what!?" he practically shouts.

* * *

"Do you understand the severity of physically assaulting three coworkers is punishable by termination? They are all concussed, two of them of them have sprained necks! Natasha, when the Council here's of this they'll- I don't know what they'll do! Natasha what were you thinking?" Coulson slumped over his desk and breathed deeply he looked up at Natasha with a calm, disappointed demeanor, "and now we have to tell Barton."

Barton. That stings. The annoying, 'got-what-they-deserved' agents were actually right about one thing. She was his project, and everyone knew it. All the time and trust he'd put into her, crushed and demolished all because a few lewd comments.

She sat silently. She didn't mean to glare but it kept happening. Coulson sat silently with her for a few minutes until Hill and Fury broke through the calm. Natasha stiffened when Fury glared, suddenly the fantastical nightmare of being forced to escape and live on the run was becoming very real. Fury began with some technical spew of what could happen to her, none of which pleasant. His voice was level and gave no indication of his opinion of her or the matter.

When he finished Hill leans onto the desk, "Sir, if I may, we all saw the tapes we know what the "victims" said to Romanoff was intentional for a reaction. It justifies her actions."

Coulson retorts, "The agents will be reprimanded once they are released from medical. Their repercussions in no way have connections to Romanoff's."

"But maybe it does," Maria replies strongly, "You look at this as two separate scenarios one involving lewd comments and the other involving assault. But in actuality it was one incident that became a domino effect. Who pushed the first domino though? The person that deliberately provoked Romanoff. The consequence for provoking should cancel out some of consequences for the reaction."

"Fury?" Coulson throws his hands out, signifying his loss of an answer.

"Where's Clint? Let's see what Clint thinks."

"He's scheduled to be off base for another three to four days," Coulson Council chimes in.

"Call him, tell him he has three hours to make it back to base or we'll let the Council decide. Hill, you escort Romanoff to an interrogation room where she'll stay until Clint returns." Fury leaves quickly and Hill motions for Natasha to follow her. Coulson takes a deep breath in the now empty office and picks up his cell phone.

* * *

"So, you're leaving right after this?" Laura looks up at him from the cot in the doctor's office. Clint squeezes her hand and nods with a sympathetic sigh. "And you're leaving because of her?"

"Laura," he sighs, "please don't be like that. I'm sure whatever happened wasn't a big deal, I'll go soothe everyone and complete the mission. Then I'll be right back here with you."

Laura tries to smile then rolls her eyes. "And what if Natasha needs her partner again?"

"Then my wife will need me more. Babe, don't worry about things that aren't happening, I'll be here."

The doctor, a chubby blond woman with a relaxed look to her comes in. "Alright, Laura and Clint, everything looks to be great order. The checkup went well, your baby is developing and has met all benchmarks for their age. I've laid out more conducive lists on foods and activities I'd like you to eliminate as we discussed earlier." Dr. Cordillera drowned on but both Bartons had lost attention. Unspoken questions and worries swirled around as to how they were going to raise a baby with Clint's job prioritizing the majority of his time.

The load themselves into Laura's sedan and embarked homeward. No one spoke for a while, no one looked at each other. "Laura?" Clint finally worked himself to break the silence.

"'Hmm," she responded absentmindedly.

"Do you want me to leave SHIELD?" He kept his voice casual.

"What? Why?" She turns sharply to face him.

"To help you out, to raise our baby, to be here more. There are a thousand reasons."

"But you love your job and what about Natasha?" She accuses.

"Take out Natasha and everything else, do you want me to leave SHIELD?" Clint presses on.

"It doesn't matter, you'd never do it no matter what my answer was." She mumbles.

"Laura." Clint falls into frustration, "why won't you answer the question?"

"I don't want to talk about this right now," she huffs and turns back away from Clint. Clint clutches the wheel tighter. They remain silent until they reach the farmhouse.

"So I don't know when I'll see you again, right?" Laura leans against the doorway to their bedroom watching her husband pack a few personal items. Clint zips up the bag and leans over to kiss her forehead.

"It'll be soon, okay?" Laura nods looking at the floor. "Hey," he say lifting her chin, "We'll be okay. When I get back we can talk about building a nursery and maybe take a trip somewhere warm while you can still fly." Before she can respond he's tilting his forward to capture her lips. The kiss is long and full of emotion, when break Laura's cheeks have been dampened by her tears.

"Goodbye," She whispers and walks into their bedroom shutting the on his fleeting expression.

* * *

Walking into Headquarters a few hours later was relieving, as far as he could tell the Council hadn't publicly executed his partner, yet. All seems normal, in fact. He stops by his room to drop off his things whistling an old rock ballad as he moves. He takes his time checking into the interrogation room where Natasha is being held, stopping at the cafeteria to buy a bottle of water and some chips. He golfed the items down as he walked through the halls, his stomach still grumbled. This was going to be a long night. Clint finally makes it to the interrogation room where he was supposed to meet Natasha. Instead he finds everyone except her.

"Where's Natasha?" He asks the occupants of the room, only being, Fury, Coulson, Hill, and a couple of security agents.

Hill looks up with a slightly masked worried look, "We were hoping you would know."


	8. Furniture, Spies, and Extortion

**I'm back! I moved and left my tablet charger! It's been a loooong few weeks guys!**

 **Chapter 7: Furniture, Spies, and Extortion**

Natasha knew she made a royal mistake assaulting those agents. She couldn't control the anger and emotion that spawned from their words. Maybe SHIELD was causing her to lose her touch. She had no reason to 'play pretend' nearly as many times as she had to living on the run or on her countless espionage missions the Red Room assigned her to. And so she thoughtlessly reacted when those agents pushed the right buttons. And now where did she find herself? Being led to an interrogation room by the second in command of SHIELD. Natasha really hated herself right now.

As soon as Coulson mentioned Barton she realized the degree to which she screwed up. She was Barton's responsibility, if she messed up the Council would hang him first. She knew she had grown attached to the archer, he was every bit as messed up as Natasha was but masked the pain with his sarcastic, sometimes goofy, but usually positive attitude. At first it had irked her, an assassin with a hopeful look, all he'd do was get himself shot one day. But soon her attitude changed, his skill matched his reputation and his wit kept him alive. But his empathy (Something Natasha debated with him on whether she had that quality or not) made him, definitively, one of 'good guys'.

Then she went and assaulted three coworkers for joking about her, ahem, sexual behaviors.

As long as she was in SHIELD's care, Barton took the hardest fall. However, if she was gone before he arrived to negotiate her punishment, she would be betraying and excusing herself from SHIELD's jurisdiction, she'd no longer be their problem. She'd go off radar, not cause any problems. She could live off her 'blood' money from her year as a freelancer that she had once vowed never to touch.

"I'll say goodbye to it all," she thought, "because Barton was right. I am empathetic, I can feel the pain of what he'd go through if I remained." She had to leave, it was the right thing to do.

Natasha took the first train she could from Washington D.C. to New York City. Using a rendition of an alias she created the year before SHIELD as a cover in between jobs. She was now Naomi Anna Richards, a 24 year old writer from the wealthy suburbs outside of Indianapolis, Indiana. Naomi lived with parents until their death when she was 19. The then opted for the inspiration of city life so she could create her "starving artist" outlook with the help of her parents' endless inherited fortunes. She first lived in Chicago, but then felt a southern wave hit her so she moved to New Orleans then Atlanta. Every few months she coincidentally needed to fuel her unpublished work by residing somewhere new.

By the time she was 24 she lived in Austin, San Diego, Cheyenne, Wyoming, Toronto, and now New York. Naomi had an unrealistically positive view of the world and surrounded herself by the finest of everything. She mourned her parents' death, then dramatized it as the only person who had suffered great loss. Anyone who met her saw her as whiny, privileged, and ignorant. She didn't make a lot of friends which was exactly what Natasha needed in an alias.

She entered her off record safe house, an apartment overlooking Central Park, it was modest for Naomi's paygrade. After all, she still needed new Boca do Lobo furniture in each apartment. The kitchen was designed in all deep purple, black, and stainless steel however Naomi never spent more than an hour in her kitchen for the entire year she has "resided" here. Today, though, she headed straight for the kitchen ignoring her luxurious burgundy and blush living room.

She had no possessions, just the clothes on her back. Natasha left SHIELD through the freight exit of the Triskelion after being excused to the restroom by Maria Hill. As an official agent of SHIELD she blended in, and raised no suspicions. It wasn't a clean break but she'd could erase her entire existence in a few minutes if she wanted with a few clicks of the keyboard. Before cleaning her slate she needed to make more distance between Clint, she had already put a few detours in her route to throw him off in case he was foolish enough to pursue her. Natasha wanted him safe, she wanted to repay Clint. He didn't yet know that the best way to keep him safe and thank him for his generosity was to stay as far away from him as possible.

In the kitchen, she maneuvered her way to the kitchen sink, and squatted down to open the cabinet underneath. With seamless movements she unscrews the tailpiece piece pipe below the drain. It pops off with any resistance. She grabs ahold of the gasket just above where the tailpiece had been, she tugs on the piece with much force. She pulls and groans, and pulls harder until a click is heard and the bottom of the sink drops about a foot from where it was. She sighs heavily and stands up, leaning over the sink. She takes hold of the false stainless steel surface and pulls it up. Setting aside the shallow shell of the sink she reveals a safe that has miraculously appeared from between the false bottom of sink and the draining system.

Naomi runs a hand through her crimson hair and spins a code to open the safe. Bundles and bundles of hundred dollars bills. She nods approvingly and hurries the bedroom to find a duffel bag. The bedroom was nothing less than stylish Parisian couture blended with classic Italian spirit. Yes, Naomi had inherited pretty tasteful eye. She opens her warobe to reveal all designer items (what would one expect) she dives in and pulls out a decent sized black bag she goes into the bathroom and hence, the bathtub and repeats a similar process as she did to the kitchen sink. This time she finds her advanced arsenal. A trace of a smile passes her lips as she looks down at the arrangement. She wishes she could take the machete or bazooka with her but that's unreasonable. She opts for pistols, bullets, and knives. After packing her basics she can't help the gleaming sparkle in her sniper rifle. The sniper broke smaller pieces, it would fit, yes, it would. She couldn't leave behind her baby. Heading back to the kitchen to fill her bag with cash, she peers out the city window listening to the sounds of the commute. Car horns, music, and sirens all to add to the ambiance of the legendary city. As soon as she has located all her necessities she places everything back into perfect order and leaves as if she never was.

* * *

Clint pinches his nose, "What did you say to her? Why would she should just run?"

Maria held up a hand in defense. "Fury only repeated protocols to her and said that we'd have to contact you. I barely spoke."

"Coulson?" Clint redirects his question.

"I asked her what she was thinking, and I told her I didn't know what would happen to her. I don't think she ran off because of a reprimanding, Clint."

Silence falls over the interrogation room, Coulson sits properly on the chair while Clint sit casually on the table. Fury and Maria lean on opposite walls. Clint hops to his feet, "Coulson, what exactly did you say when you said that you don't know what may happen to her?" Clint is pacing and Coulson straightens up.

"I said that the Council may decide to terminate her for this but I don't know what they'll decide."

Clint hums thoughtfully. "Fury, did you say something similar when you went over protocol with her?"

"I said something exactly like that," Fury says as if he's picking up where Clint is going with this, "You really think she thinks that SHIELD's going to kill her?"

"English isn't even her first language." Clint defends.

"According to her file she mastered it by the time she seven," Maria chirps.

"Nevertheless, if you use the word termination to someone that's been an assassin since she was a little girl, the word subconsciously takes on a default meaning."

"Why would someone assume that the company they have been working at for a year would kill them for one mistake?"

Clint smirks, "Let's not pretend like a few months back the Council assigned her purposely to a suicide mission. Let's also not pretend that SHIELD is known for having a high moral compass and upholds decency in every matter."

No one disagrees. Clint continues, "She didn't run because you frightened her, she running because she knows she is good enough to not get caught, and die."

There is a knock at the door and two SHIELD security guards enter. One speaks, "We track her going to the nearest subway and we think we may have seen her at a terminal in Philadelphia, two hours later but we can't confirm that. If that was her, she has access to trains going to Pittsburgh, Chicago, Toronto, Boston, and New York all of them making multiple stops each. Romanoff could be anywhere, sir. We can out an alert in the system and report back if anyone spots her, but we can't do much until then."

"Don't send put that alert, she'll kill anyone she thinks will blow her cover." Clint pauses, and thinks. "Cover…" he whispers.

"Barton?" Hill gives him a confused look.

Clint makes for the door, "I'll find her."

"How?" Coulson yells to his Clint's fleeting figure.

"I'll figure that out after I find her!" Clint calls back.

* * *

A trio of raggedy files are plopped onto Coulson's desk, "Clint, why is this mess here?" Phil doesn't look up.

"It's not a mess, its Natasha. Or at the very least, who Nat is pretending to be."

Coulson looks up, more intrigued than before. He inspects each file. He then looks up at Clint, "This was your original Black Widow assassination mission files."

"Right," Barton smiles hovering over his desk, "I had to observe her for a few days before I was due to kill her. She was living in New York under the name Naomi Richards. Now, remember how security tracked her in Philadelphia a couple hours ago? Well guess who hacked into the Amtrak system to see that a certain woman of the same name purchased a business class ticket to New York just under an hour ago?"

Coulson stands, buttoning his suit. "Alright, assuming this is our agent, don't you think she'd be wiser than to go to her old living area to hide from SHIELD?"

"Well there's the dilemma. You see, when I did recon on her, I suspected that the apartment she was staying at doubled as a very important safehouse. She would risk stopping at the apartment constantly in between dangerous missions, I don't think this is any different. And if am right, her train should be arriving in New York in the next half hour. She'll probably be quick, just grabbing whatever necessities and leaving, presumably out of the country. If we can't stop her from leaving New York, we may lose her forever."

"What are you suggesting we do, she won't hesitate to kill anyone we send after her, besides you or me? Even still, by the time we got to the city, if she's left her apartment already, she'd be anywhere."

Clint scratches the back of his neck, "I have an idea. It's kind of drastic, might be stupid but it would work quickly and it might be the only way to retrieve her."

Coulson hesitates, "Don't tell me yet. Go and hack into the security feed of whatever terminal she's supposed to be arriving in and confirm your hunch. Then we'll decide."

Clint claps his hands together, "That's all I needed to hear, sir."

Clint rushes to his laptop, when he passes the lunchroom and sees two familiar agents. He detours.

"Demorie, Sanden! How's it going newbies?" The two rookie agents exchanged worried glances to each and dropped their silverware. The infamous Hawkeye doesn't to talk to people like them, no one talks to them except each other, really. Legendary agents especially don't talk to rookie agents that were responsible for nearly blowing up their partner a few months ago.

Demorie pulls himself together enough to respond, "Hey, Barton, were good. Going on lots of missions and stuff, we haven't blown anyone up yet though," his attempt at a lightheartedness is immediately recognized as poor wording. Both agents' eyes go wide, Barton does every self-control technique not to scare them back to their mother's houses.

"Sounds good, heard you guys just came back from a mission in New York?"

They both nod, although Demorie still seems dazed by his comment. Sanden chimes in, "Mostly classified stuff, know you how it is, saving the world from the next global threat," he jokes. There is an awkward pause.

"We didn't mean to almost kill your partner!" Demorie shouts suddenly. The cafeteria grows quiet and people glance, baffled, in Demorie direction. Conversations resume, but Demorie's checks remain red. Clint once again, swallows the urge to embarrass them even further, he smiles instead.

"No, no, that's way in the past guys. I'm sure Natasha can't even remember the accident," Clint smirks as the boys share a look of horror, "Listen, I actually need your help with Nat, meet me in Coulson's office in ten minutes."

They nod and Clint makes a brisk exit. Clint goes straight to his dorm where he's already set up the security feed to New York Penn Station to the proper rail line that Natasha should be getting off at in five minutes.

There she was, although grainy dressed the same pair of jeans, ankle boots, tank top, and jacket (which was now tied around her waist). Sunglasses over her eyes and beanie on her head, she was dressed for the warm early autumn night she was headed for. Clint squinted at his screen, even on the grainy screen he could spot evidence of pink imprints on right wrist. Oh yes, that was Natasha. He snaps the computer shut and all but sprints down to Coulson's office.

He enters without knocking. "I've got her! I was right!" Coulson, accustomed to Barton doesn't flinch.

"Great, what's the plan?"

Clint sobers up, "You're not going like it."

Coulson stands and smirks, "Try me, Barton."

Clint smiles. A nervous knock at the door interrupts them, Demorie and Sanden appear. Clint's grin turns mischievous.


End file.
